


Gold.

by parodySphoria



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Gold Sickness, Insight, Mentions of other characters - Freeform, Obsessive Behaviour, brooding royalty, no porn here sorry oscar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-12
Updated: 2015-03-12
Packaged: 2018-03-17 14:33:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3532913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parodySphoria/pseuds/parodySphoria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is no sound quite like the bright, echoing rustle of gold coins; sliding over one another, tripping over gemstones on their descent. It's a sound that would, in any other situation, could possibly be deemed beautiful - refreshing almost, if it weren't for the atmosphere surrounding these coins. The sickness that lies upon them, infecting the air and those who dare breathe it with an insatiable hunger, a greed for more; eyes wide and unblinking, dry in the reflections of light that cast silver moons upon rich, dark fabric.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gold.

There is no sound quite like the bright, echoing rustle of gold coins; sliding over one another, tripping over gemstones on their descent. It's a sound that would, in any other situation, could possibly be deemed beautiful - refreshing almost, if it weren't for the atmosphere surrounding these coins. The sickness that lies upon them, infecting the air and those who dare breathe it with an insatiable hunger, a greed for more; eyes wide and unblinking, dry in the reflections of light that cast silver moons upon rich, dark fabric.

Dwarven boots laying themselves upon gold creates a slightly less melodic tone, but echoes no less in the vast, cavernous expanse of Erebor's treasure hoard. The king under the mountain walks once more, hands behind his back as his strong gaze lays upon the hoarded treasure of his grandfather and he finds himself muttering in his native tongue into the empty air. He walks this same path repetitively, seemingly hoping that if he walks it enough, the gem he seeks will simply appear before him as if to secure his birthright, his claim to the throne now so weakly defended by his kin.

He lifts his gaze as he hears quiet footsteps, barely tilting his head to look as his eyes find the figure of his youngest nephew stood watching him once more. Kíli has a habit of coming to check on him, as if Thorin Oakenshield wasn't able to care for himself. he continues to walk, velvet and fur lined robes casting out behind him and overturning the thinner coins. The Dwarf King doesn't speak, not even as Fíli comes to lead his brother away, casting their uncle a concerned but nervous glance, simply casts his eyes back down to the treasure - their treasure - and cursing all greedy elves and men in the language of his forebears.

Every few moments he feels a tug of clarity, a moment where he stops, casting his eyes about himself as to remind his mind where it is and what it's doing, shaking his mane of unruly hair as if to shake off some foul beast forming its nest in his brain, and then it's back to muttering. The hobbit comes to check on him twice a day - he knows, though he does not see him. Sometimes he'll talk to him, though the hobbit seldom replies.

King Thorin stops at the peak of a rather large pile of gold, his face contorting in a strange mixture of disgust and smug satisfaction as he glares at the valley before him for what would seem to any outsider to be hours, before turning his shoulders and walking back once more. He has not yet seen the gem he seeks, and it seems the rest of his loyal company have given up helping and have instead chosen to sit by the gates and cry for home.

Home.

This is their home. It was taken from them! Do they not understand?!

"Do you not understand?!" Thorin shouts, turning towards the stairwell and landing his eyes on a perfectly invisible hobbit, who freezes in his shock, "This is our home, why do you not understand?!"

The angry, failing King turns back towards his hoard, leaving the nervous hobbit to conclude that his friend was unaware of his presence and let out a deep breath he'd found himself holding. He was already holding enough things he shouldn't be without adding air into the list, too.

The gold casts his friend in a different light, he feels. One of cold dissatisfaction, with an aching longing and a terrible fear. As he watches him stalk slowly amongst the world of treasure below he fears for the sickness that drives him. Breathing becomes difficult down here, not only because Thorin seems to be able to sense the presence of anyone nearing his grandfathers hoard, but because the air seems thick and dusty; the smell of dragon filthy and suffocating, polluting all who dare spend too long down here.

Polluting Thorin.

As the hobbit turns to leave for the third time that day the dwarf king hears his footsteps, his eyes following him out of the room with a sad longing. Loneliness is a strange feeling, he supposes, but it won't do him much good if war comes.

His braids swing as he turns once more, boots sliding easily over the coins so tightly packed they're almost like liquid beneath his feet and he closes his eyes, looking out to the hallways nearby, towards the particular hallway that he knows is now flooded with golden light and the angry gold dust shaken from a dragon whose rage could power their forges beyond their own long years.

Perhaps, he supposes, he should walk a while.

**Author's Note:**

> Getting my groove back on, stay tuned but don't hold your breath.


End file.
